The Unknown Prince
by Nikon Asturias
Summary: One decision caused the Game to change years ago. Now, Ned Stark, the Lord of Winterfell, must keep his oath and see that the Rightful King is put back on to the Iron Throne. No matter the costs, even if it's his friend that sits on it.
1. Bran

**Bran**

_The man had been condemned and his sentence was carried out_. Brandon Stark, who was called Bran by most instead, had to remind himself. His father, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell and the Warden of the North, had seen to it himself, as it was the custom in the North.

"The man passing the sentence should be the man swinging the sword," his father had told him, just before they left their castle to see it done. There were twenty of them when they had departed the castle, and only nineteen had returned. A man in chains and black, a desert of the Night's Watch, had been sentenced to death for desertion. He had abandoned his post and made his way but only to be captured and sentenced. The situation made no sense to Bran. _Why would he leave the Wall? _All of his life he had listened to stories of the Night's Watch, from Old Nan or his Uncle Benjen, his father's younger brother and the fourth child of his grandfather Rickard Stark. They told him that it was an honorable institution. That although a man serves for life, they do so willingly. His uncle had been a recruit once but he returned to Winterfell before he swore his vows to serve his father, when he became the Lord of the North in the stead of his father and older brother, Brandon, Bran's namesake, after the Mad King had them both killed.

It was the first time Bran had seen a man die. He did not wish to see it though but he did. He was a Stark of the North, of the First Men. It was his duty. So he did. His father was proud of him and so was his brother, Robb.

Robb, being the elder, had taken to riding beside their father with their uncle. He was six and ten. He was tall and broad, and like Bran, had the Tully features of their mother.

Beside him was Theon Greyjoy, his father's ward, the eldest son of Balon Greyjoy of House Greyjoy, the Lord of the Iron Islands. He wore the sigil of his House, a Yellow Kraken on Black Tapestry, proudly on his breasts. He adored the sound of his own voice. He was the one who carried Ice, the ancestral sword of the Starks, a Greatsword forged from Valyrian Steel. He handed it off to his father before he passed judgment and swung the sword. Theon was riding beside his father's other ward, Domeric Bolton, the heir to House Bolton and Roose Bolton's only child.

In Winterfell, Domeric was known as the Harp that Rides. He enjoyed his instrument over his sword and was the best rider in all of Winterfell. He was Robb's elder by two years and younger than Theon by three. He was taller than Theon but shorter than Robb, his skin was fairer than everyone's in Winterfell, and he had pale eyes, like milk. Though, he was kind and soft-spoken. He had helped Bran during the execution. He placed a calming hand on his shoulder and kept him forward. _He is better than Theon. _Bran preferred the Flayed Man to the Kraken.

The party continued down the Kingsroad, well over halfway on their journey when they had stopped. Bran did not see why. He had attempted to ask Jory Cassel, a man in the service of his father, he was told to be silent.

"What's going on," he asked again. He could not see what had transpired, his pony was much smaller than the rest of the mounts, and he was not tall either.

"Be silent," he said again. There was something happening. Something important. Bran had to see. So he did. He nudged his pony, to the outside of Jory, and he saw what he wanted to.

No more than a fifty yards ahead was a party, smaller than their own, no more than five men but they all appeared armed. They were dressed in clothes and armor that Bran did not know. They seemed to be dressed for summer and not for winter. The colors they were not of any Northern House Bran knew, and he knew them all. Maester Luwin had seen to him knowing them all, including their words, before his ninth name day, these, however he did not know. He was unfamiliar with a sun and a bending spear piercing through it.

When the riders had noticed them, one had taken initiative and rode forward; Bran had noticed his father doing the same. "I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North," his voiced echoed through the Wolfswood and Kingsroad, loud enough for all to hear with ease. "Tell me, what brings men of House Martell this far North?"

Bran was more than surprised. _House Martell sent emissaries to the North?_ He did not understand why. The North and Dorne were kept apart by almost all of Westeros. Why would the ruling House of Dorne send men so far North? He did not understand why.

"I am Ser Daemon Sand," the rider had called out. "And we are in a slight predicament, " he looked back and forth between their groups. Something was not right.

"What keeps you?"

Bran could not hear the rider after. He spoke too soft for he and the others to hear. He could only wonder what had been exchanged between them but he could only suspect for they soon joined with them and rode alongside them to Winterfell. They had come to the North for Robb's nameday, a fortnight away. The knight had spoken with his father, loud for all to hear, and said that Prince Doran Martell had sent them to open relations between their two Houses.

"There are things that Dorne and the North can help one another with," Ser Daemon said. Bran had gone forward, between Theon and Robb, who had taken to riding beside Ser Daemon as he rode with their father. He bore light mail beneath leather and wore large furs above that. He was unused to the cold and it was something he never had experienced in Dorne. There was sand instead of snow there, he said. Then he talked of the rest of their party, which had ventured off ahead. Part of their group was headed for Winterfell and the rest had gone to find the source of a brutalized stag.

"We followed a trail of blood along the road," he said. "I have never seen anything like this, Lord Stark. We have no such animals that could have done that in Dorne. A bear possibly?"

"It is possible but I don't know." Father answered. They had passed a stag on the road behind them. It had been torn apart and left in tatters. Its innards were spilt along the road and blood had flowed beside it. The flies were swarming and the maggots had already begun to feast. Bran did not know what it could have been; he did not think anyone amongst them did either. A bear would drag off or feast on the stag but not leave it as such. A wolf was the same.

"I mean no offense, Lord Stark, but it is not the answer I was seeking."

"Nor was it the answer I wanted to give you."

They rode for a few more moments before stopping. Ahead of them were two more riders. They bore faded grey plate armor, and helmets that covered their faces fully. The helmets left only slits between their eyes and their mouths bare. They held onto the reigns of fours horses and wore bearskin over their armor.

"Ser Daemon," one of them said. He sounded like Ser Rodrick, the Master of Arms of Winterfell. Though, he sounded meaner and gruffer. "Took you too long. I didn't think you get here soon enough, bastard." The word rolled off his tongue as more of a title than insult.

In the North, bastards were Snows. They were disgraceful and looked down upon. They were the stains on a Lord's honor.

"I apologize, Ser Alliser, I merely waited for Lord Stark and his company," Ser Daemon replied.

Ser Alliser, the now named knight, turned his focus back to father. "Lord Stark, I apologize for my disrespect." He lowered his head.

"There is no need to apologize, you gave no offense." The man bowed his head before turning his focus back to his fellow knight.

"We found a dead wolf off the road, down by the creek." He motioned an armored glove to the woods. "It's bigger than any I've ever seen. It's almost the size of my horse." His words would have silenced them all, if they were not quiet already. "Jon's waiting down by the creek with the wolf, you might want to see it."

They did. Bran and ten of the men had descended to see the wolf, one as large as a horse but that was not the case. The closer he got to the beast it came clear.

The wolf was bigger.

"It's a freak," Theon spoke first. He had his bow gripped tightly as he followed father.

"It's not a freak," Domeric then voiced. He looked at the creature with wide eyes. "Lord Stark, is this what I think it is?"

"Aye," father said. "This is a direwolf." He took a step towards the corpse of the animal, there was a stag horn sticking out of its neck. He brushed his hand over its fur before pulling it out and tossing it to his side. The blood was still wet but it no longer seeped. It must have struggled to get as far as it did. "But what's it doing here?"

"I thought those were only stories." Robb said. "Like the ones Old Nan told us." Like father, he knelt beside the beast but instead of running his hand over the dead wolf. He grabbed onto something else. A pup. There were five of them, all nestled together against the wolf. When Bran had that pup in his hand, he realized that its eyes were still closed.

"Aye," father said. Bran, however, had been transfixed by the pup and did not listen to what his father had said afterwards. He rubbed his hand over its gentle fur, he knew it was gentle despite his gloves, and he smiled. He had wanted to keep it and the pup seemed to want the same. It settled in his arms and seemed to be calmer.

"Give it here," Bran stopped. He looked up, away from his new pup. Theon gripped a dagger with his left hand and had reached for the pup with his other. It whimpered and it seemed it knew what was to happen.

"No," but it was no use. The pup was out of his hands and in Theon's.

"Stay your hand," Robb said. He used his commanding voice. It was not like their father's but it made Theon stop. The blade was close to killing the pup.

"I take orders from your father, not you." He went to finish the act.

Bran could only watch. The pup was going to die and there was nothing that he could do to save it. The rest of them would be dead soon too.

"Lord Stark," a new voice called. Bran saw his father's ward stay his hand, once again, and look to it. It was one of the Dornish riders. He, like Ser Daemon, had light mail and leather over it but he did not wear any furs. He had a helm, that was silver and covered his nose to the tip and left the lower part of his face exposed. He carried in one hand a spear and on his hip was a sword, like the one father and his men at arms used. "The Direwolf is the sigil of your House, is it not?"

Bran watched his father look at the rider before nodding.

"Then it would seem you were meant to find these pups. There are five pups here, and you have five children." With his words, all the men had begun to watch him carefully. "Three of them are male, two are female. You have three sons, and two daughters."

_That's right_, Bran had wanted to say but he could not find words. There were five of them: Robb, Sansa, Arya, him, and Rickon. There were enough for them to each have one. He hoped and pleaded within it that father would listen to the rider. He hoped his wolf would be saved.

"Ser Martyn's red bitch whelped again last week, father." Robb had joined with the rider. "There'll be milk enough."

"She'll tear them apart, when they try to nurse," their father countered, "But I do find meaning in what you say." His attention turned towards the rider. What is your name, Ser?"

"Ser Jon Sand," the knight replied.

"Tell me, Ser Jon, what would you do with the pup?"

"Soak a cloth in milk and feed it to the pup," he replied in earnest.

"I would do the same, father," Robb rushed. There was excitement in his voice. "I won't let it die, I would see that it grows."

"Me too," Bran could not help but shout. He was not embarrassed in the slightest.

"So be it," father said. "Theon." With that, the pup that was taken from him was returned into Bran's arms. He held on to it fiercely as it began to lick against his face.

"You must train them as well," their father added. "You must train them. The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these monsters. I promise you that. The gods help you if you neglect them, or brutalize them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats or slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip off a man's arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog would kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?"

"Yes, father," Bran said.

"Yes," Robb agreed.

"They may die anyway, despite all you do."

"I won't let them die." Bran declared.

"Neither will I, father," Robb agreed once more.

"So be it." Domeric and Ser Rodrick gathered the rest of the pups. The Dornish men stood and watched as they began to return to the road but one of them had stopped, the one with the helmet of a dog.

"I think you missed one," he said. His voice echoed. The party had stopped and watched. "You left one with the mother."

Then, the knight with the spear, Ser Jon, had stepped forward and went to collect it. It was small and fit into hand with ease.

The pup was pure white, as snow. Its eyes were open and red.

"An albino," Theon said. "Another freak. You might as well kill it, bastard. There are no Stark bastards here to claim that one. None of us would want it." It was true. There would be no one to take care of it.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Ser Jon said. He rested his spear against his shoulder before using his free hand to remove his helmet. The entire party of Winterfell watched in silence.

Ser Jon had the dark hair, a strong face, and Stark eyes. He could have passed off for Bran's older brother, his bastard older brother. "My name is Ser Jon Sand, knight in the service of House Martell, former squire to Prince Oberyn Martell, the bastard son of Lady Ashara Dayne and Brandon Stark. I'm also known as the Unclaimed Bastard of Winterfell."


	2. Teaser

Update:

Hey there, I'm back officially.

I know it's been a longtime but sometimes that's how life is and that's a priority to me. Thanks with sticking with me this far and I hope you enjoy the rest of the ride.

The first chapter of the update Unknown Prince. So, go and read that. I'm sorry it's taken a while but better late than never. I'll update as soon as I'm down with the next couple chapters. Let me know what you think. Send me a PM or review if you haven't already. I like to know what you think.

I got two new stories out on my profile. So, if you like FSN, Star Wars, or Dc, I think you might be interested.

Thanks for reading and you have a good one.

Preview of future chapters

"**Sometimes, I wonder if she would have loved me if she met me," he whispered into the hair of his paramour. "I wonder if she would have loved me."**

"**I want him out of my home, Ned. He does not belong here, he is not a Stark and has no right to come here."**

"**You fight like a knight I knew," Jaime said. This bastard was skilled, too skilled. There was only one man in the Seven Kingdoms who fought like that and he had been dead for years. **

"**I have been here since you crushed my father. When will I be able to see home?"**

"**We can kill the usurper, here and now, and we can send the turncloaks to the Seven Hells, where they belong." **

**The Mountain towered over him, at least by two feet. Still, he did not back down. "I don't know if you know me," Jon said. "But I know who you are." **_**You murderer. **_**He rested his spear on his shoulder. **_**Her name was Elia Martell, the wife of my father, the mother of my sister and my brother, the sister wife to my mother, an innocent woman. **_**He shot forward.**

"**My lords," her voice echoed and silence followed. "There is only one true king, only one. It is not the stag and neither is it the wolf but the dragon."**


	3. Jon

**Disclaimer: I do not own A song of Ice and Fire. It is owned by George R.R. Martin. I do this for fun and make no profit. Please support the official release. **

I: Jon

Jon had never been North before. He had been across the Narrow Sea. He had traveled across the Dothraki Sea. The fighting pits were a part of his training. He survived the Viper Pit itself. But for him, now, to bear witness to the home of his ancestors was without words.

The castle itself was grand. He could see the battlements as they rode from afar. The banners of House Stark flew in the cold wind, just as he knew the banners of House Martell flew inside the courtyard of Winterfell. It was the sight that greeted them as they entered the great keep.

Over fifty riders from Dorne had come with him, knights and bannermen in the service of House Martell, House Dayne, and House Dondarrion. All the riders were huddled as one. The cold of the north was not something they had been born to. They lived in the blistering suns of the desert. The blood of his ancestors kept Jon from being in their place.

After passing through the gates, Jon trotted his mount towards the first born son of Prince Doran Martell, Quentyn. He was not of the highest stature, the plainest of his family. He was short, stocky, with short brown hair. There was evidence of stubble setting in. Jon, two years his younger, stubble was thick and more beard than fuzz. Though different in appearance, he knew his elder was a close friend, often trying to prove his worth. He lived in the shadow of his sister most his life.

"Prince Quentyn," Jon greeted. He stopped before his liege lord, bowing his head. "I see that you have beaten us to Winterfell."

The prince kept neutral. His smiles were few and far between. "I did not volunteer to stay behind, to watch the corpse of some rotting wolf," he replied. "Though, it seems you were rewarded for your patience."

Jon grinned through his helm. "Aye, I've found me a direwolf pup."

The prince nearly fell from his horse. "A direwolf pup. I thought they were just legend."

"They say the same about dragons," a gruff voice intruded. A large man strode over to them. He stood over six and a half foot, with the helm of a bull. His armor was thick plate. He carried a longsword at his hip, the pommel was plain and simple. He commanded respect by the way he stood. All the riders minded him with rapt attention. "But they were real. This was with the dead wolf?" He gazed at the pup.

Jon nodded to the old knight. He went by Harold Rivers. "A runt."

"An albino," another voice added. His was more lighthearted. A smaller man in boiled leather armor and a wolf skin cloak rode up beside them. His hair was blue, as was his beard, like the customs in Tyrosh in the Free Cities. His face was weathered slightly, as he still kept a more youthful appearance. There was a bat sewed into his left shoulder. "It's almost like Snow, isn't it Sand?" His humor was lackluster at the best of times. It never stopped him, sadly.

"Aye, Oswey, it is." His name was Oswey Stone. He did not hail from the Vale. "This is my own Direwolf pup."

Harold kept his eyes trained on the pup. The beast was not aware of the present danger it was in. The man had a habit of killing first.

"I will see to it that he lives, Harold," Jon was not speaking in defiance. No, he spoke in earnest. The pup would live. "Don't fret for nothing."

"See to it then," the old man looked at the other end of the yard. He met the gaze of another ride, one with the same hair as Oswey. He stood beside a tall and curved woman in red robes, a tutor from Asshai. "Oswey."

Jon watched the younger man follow his commander, veering through the people of Winterfell. They had gathered in the courtyard by the score. The appearance of people with olive skin must have beckoned them outside.

"Are you sure that you hail from the North, Jon," Quentyn asked.

"Aye, I am." He looked to see the Lord and Lady of Winterfell at the entrance of the castle. She did not look pleased. The tending to guests was often intricate when given word. They had arrived unannounced. It could be counted as insult. "I do not believe I am welcomed."

The others who stood with him were inclined to agree.

II:

At dusk, Jon sat outside the stables. His armor and helmet were put away, and replaced with a thick shirt and trousers, and a pelt of a bear wrapped around him. He had yet to meet his cousins. Their mother had kept them from him. She did not believe he was of Stark blood. She boldly shouted he was a rouse, a lie, and an insult to the Stark name. A name she had been married into. He did not take any pleasure from Catelyn Tully that was definite.

His direwolf pup, who he had come to call Ghost, his company was far better. The ball of fur was nestled within his arms, snoring gently. At times his leg kicked out. They had taken to each other greatly.

A few moments more of silence, then he was interrupted. "I did not think you would be so unwelcomed into your own home."

"Neither did I, Sarella." Jon looked to see his paramour's shadow over him. She was the fourth daughter of Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne, his bastard daughter of a woman from the Summer Islands. She was in a shirt and breeches. Her black hair was short and ruffled. She wore the wolf pelt he gifted to her from White Harbor. A woman with dark skin such as hers stood out in the north, where everything was so white and pale.

"I take it this does not bother you." She took her place beside him, her eyes began to trace the young pup. "It doesn't seem to bother this one."

In another life, living as a bastard within the walls he sat in, it may have. He may have lived in fear and caution of Catelyn Stark, but that was not his life. He did not fear the Lady of the House. He pitied her. He did not know why he did, he just did.

"I am not bothered by her displeasure with me, Sarella. Not in the least." The smile on his face may not have been here if he had been a bastard raised in Winterfell. "I just don't know what to feel." He sat back against the stable.

She looked down at him. Sarella had a glare she stored for him. Only him. She used it when the time called for it. It was the same glare her father used for him during his time as his squire. There was no point to arguing, only complying.

III:

Sarella dragged him into the crypts. She found them when she arrived with her cousin. Her favor for searching outweighed her desire for a bath and feather bed to rest in. Adventure spoke to her more than rest.

So now, they sat, illuminated by the torch she had taken from the kitchens. They sat as one. Her back against his chest, and Ghost within her arms. He didn't stir, but for a moment. He yawned in Sarella's grasp, before fading off to rest. She declared she would never let the pup go, and received no complaints.

Jon kept his arms around her, gripping her tight. He took in the scent of her hair. Cold air and sweat filled his nostrils.

"Sometimes, I wonder if she would have loved me, if she met me." He kissed her neck. "Some nights I lay awake wondering, I try to imagine her face but I cannot."

"I don't know, Jon." Sarella spoke in a rare voice. She was rarely gentle, not even with her own sisters. Her tongue was considered the sharpest of them, as was her wit. "I'd imagine."

"So do I."

The two lovers fell asleep, in front of the tomb of Lyanna Stark. The tomb of Jon's mother.

**AN:**

**I know this is bad. I mean, this is really bad. But the introduction to Winterfell has been difficult for me to get down into concrete form. Trust me, the draft before this was terrible. **

**Feel free to review or PM me for questions. **

**Thanks for reading. **

**-Nikon Asturias. **

P.S. I'm a little drunk right now, so please excuse the terrible writing.


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